


spent your whole life (running away)

by leetlebird



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 03:52:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15088415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leetlebird/pseuds/leetlebird
Summary: Kent doesn't know why Troy can't just focus on hockey. They don't need anything else.





	spent your whole life (running away)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ronanlynchisneversleepingagain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronanlynchisneversleepingagain/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my problem child, Kent Valid Parson!! And happy KPBB day to [ronanlynchisneversleepingagain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronanlynchisneversleepingagain/profile)!!!! Thank u thank u Julie for all the work you've done as a mod for the challenge. YOU'RE AMAZING <3 Thank you as well to A and J for the beta.
> 
> Title from The Lumineers' "Angela", which is the highbrow theme song of this fic. (the lowbrow song would be "She's Not Afraid" by 1D tbh.) I put together a quick lil playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/monstrosit/playlist/1gcz4GcOqk36ARmxngKBGV) for this story as well, if you want to check it out! 
> 
>  
> 
> That's all I've got -- enjoy!!!

  


  


  


  


With their third loss in a row, the Aces slip to fourth in the division. 

Kent pats the rookies on the back, even the ones who didn’t play. He listens to Coach Erickson’s feedback and makes sure the other guys are paying attention. He makes Smirnov stay behind to apologize to the equipment manager for breaking both his extra sticks in his postgame tantrum. 

“We’ll get ‘em on Monday,” Kent says.

He has no goddamn idea if they’ll get ‘em on Monday. He fucking hates losing. And he wants to break a lot more than a pair of sticks.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Kent comes into practice the next day expecting tough drills, expecting a lot of focus on creating chances in their own zone. 

He isn’t expecting Coach Erickson to take Matty Tremblay off his line and replace him with Nate Troy.

“You three should be ready to skate together by the end of next week,” Erickson says, nodding at Kent, Troy, and Bigs. “Parser, Bigs, keep working with Matty at the end of practice, but you need to be working on your chemistry with Troy the rest of the time. Got it?”

Kent isn’t sure this is the greatest move, but his job is to support whatever Erickson says, at least in front of the team. Bigs has always been the muscle on their line, leaving Matty as the playmaker and Kent as the scorer. Matty has always been the go-between for Bigs and Kent; taking him out of the equation makes Kent nervous.

Anyway, Troy’s spent the past two months and all of last season as a third-line grinder. That doesn’t make sense on Kent’s line.

“Yes, sir,” Kent says, and Bigs just shrugs.

“Then quit fucking standing here and go practice,” Erickson says. Troy and Bigs laugh, and Kent tries to smile along. 

Matty waves at them from his new line, and Kent grimaces. They get ready to play against each other, to test what they’ve got. “All right, boys, let’s bring it in,” Troy says, gesturing for Bigs and Kent to huddle up with him. “Parse, what’s the plan?”

“You’re the playmaker now, dude. Your call.” Kent watches the stands. There aren’t as many fans here to watch as there were this time last year.

“Uh.” Troy’s smiling at him. Kent looks over at Bigs. “I dunno, you gotta let me settle in first. What do you think we should do?”

Kent wants out of this huddle. It’s too close for comfort, Troy’s arm draped over him like this. “See if you can stickhandle your way past Matty, then send it behind the net for me. I’ll go for the wraparound or pass to one of you. Cool?”

Troy’s answering smile is grateful. “Cool.”

Kent slides out from under his arm. It’s a relief.

Their play doesn’t work, at least not this time. Troy can’t get around Matty, and Matty drives it toward their goal. When the defenders Kent’s line is practicing with get ahold of it and clear the puck, Kent’s able to snag it off the boards and go racing by himself toward the net, but Jonesy blocks his shot. 

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. A lucky breakaway isn’t exactly good practice for blending their new line together.

Their line doesn’t really gel for the rest of the scrimmage. Eventually, they get some time to practice without opponents -- Carl stands just past the opposite blue line, feeding easy passes to Bigs so they can just work on their chemistry, experimenting at different speeds and different spots on the ice.

“Parser, baby, come here,” Bigs calls, hoarse from breathing in the cold air. “Goddamn. I’ll just tell you what I’m seeing. You’re going slower than usual. Troy, you see that?”

“Yeah.” Troy shrugs, then turns to Kent with a teasing grin. “Should we race, Parse? You don’t wanna know how much the first guy who beats you two lengths stands to make. I dunno if you forgot your coffee or what, but let’s do this.”

Kent checks the clock. One hour to go. “Right now I’m going slower because we need to work on our passing at a lower speed before we can work up to something harder. Once those pucks get to me clean and on time, every time, I’ll speed up.”

“Come on, Parser, you’ve seen my car. I need the money. Race me.”

“I need us to focus on passing right now,” Kent says calmly. “Alright?”

Troy glances at Bigs. He shakes his head like Kent is being a buzzkill, but Kent waits him out as patiently as he can. “Yeah, okay,” Troy says. “I’ll wear you out and kick your _ass_ at the end of practice, though, so don’t think you got out of this one.” 

Kent skates off to the center line. He feels achy, deep like it’s in his bones, but he ignores it. 

After practice, Troy hangs around the bench like he’s waiting for Kent. Kent does his best to focus on his conversation with Jonesy, not giving any indication that he’s even noticing Troy as they skate closer.

“Parser,” Troy yells when Kent passes him. “Let’s go.”

Jonesy glances between them, then hops into the bench. He disappears down the tunnel, and Kent feels his stomach clench.

He turns to Troy, screwing his mouth to the side and nodding toward the bench. “Come on, man. Quick talk.”

Troy rolls his eyes, which at least means he’s gotten the message that Kent isn’t going to fucking race him. Good. 

“We did okay out there. Tomorrow, let’s start with more passing practice and wait until we’re warmed up to scrimmage, right? It’s gonna take some time for us to move up to game speed, and I need you to be focused 110% on getting our line together. No distractions. I know our line moves quicker than your old one, and a lot of that was down to me and Matty, but if you keep practicing with us, you’re gonna get faster. Just takes time.” Kent starts to reach out so he can pat Troy’s shoulder, but he thinks better of it. “Okay, man. Get some rest. Thanks for your work today.”

Troy’s staring at him like he -- but how he’s feeling isn’t Kent’s problem. “Thanks,” Troy says, acidic, and Kent nods at him and gestures for Troy to start heading to the locker room. Kent’s always the last one down the tunnel. 

This time, he waits an extra minute. He stares out at the ice, practicing his deep breathing exercises. “Fucking Christ,” Kent mutters to himself eventually, and he turns to leave.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Sometime around nineteen, Kent finally learned to cook for himself. 

Sometime around twenty-five, he finally threw away most of the shit he’d kept that reminded him of Jack.

He’s pretty sure the last hurdle of adulthood is learning to clean regularly, but he’s a year off from thirty and it’s not looking good. Still, he’s trying to blow off some steam after practice by sorting through some of the shoeboxes under his bed. 

Most of them are full of weird shit like Christmas ornaments, unused gift cards, and ugly winter gloves -- stuff he’d never had use for, but had felt too guilty to throw out.

There’s one shoebox that’s mostly paper. It kind of takes Kent back as he shuffles through it, seeing the hockey tournament schedules and brochures for his Juniors team. 

But when his hand settles on a folded-up piece of notebook paper, Kent stops. He doesn’t remember this, but at the same time he feels, down in his gut, that he knows.

He could just throw it away. He doesn’t have to look at it.

Kent unfolds the paper slowly; his hands feel clumsy. Of course it’s in Jack’s handwriting. Kent hasn’t seen it in years, the way Jack’s letters all crowd together -- slim, tall, slightly leaning to the right -- but he’d recognize it anywhere.

Jack had written him letters, sometimes, and Kent had completely forgotten about that until now. He can’t believe he forgot. That had been so Jack, though, and Kent had never written anything back. Kent didn’t like putting things into words.

This one, like all the others, must have been written when they were seventeen. Kent would have found it in his hockey bag, would have taken the first opportunity to sneak into a bathroom stall so he could read it. That’s a memory that lives so deeply, so viscerally in Kent that he doesn’t think he’ll ever dig it out.

He can’t believe he forgot.

There’s nothing truly important in the letter. Reading it now, most of it doesn’t make any sense. They’d relied on inside jokes and understandings so much that it might as well have been written in code. But Kent can see the teenage Jack in this, how he’d been so strange and how big his mind was, when he’d let Kent see.

Abruptly, Kent doesn’t want to be touching it anymore. It makes -- it’s done now, anyway, and there’s a reason he’d thrown out everything that reminded him of Zimms. There’s no point holding on.

He leaves it in the wastebasket. It’ll go out with the trash and be gone forever. The way it should be. That’s good, that’s a good thing, but Kent still feels it like a panic. He hates shit like this, little reminders of that time. Who he used to be, what he used to have -- it’s gone with no chance of coming back. He tries not to think the word _ruined_. His hands ache.

Fuck it. Kent’s done enough cleaning for one day. He kicks the rest of the boxes under the bed and goes to find his cat.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


“I didn’t know you could even get up this early,” Kent says. It’s just him and Troy on the ice, and it’s still dark outside. He raises his hand to give Troy a quick fistbump. “Seriously, who are you?”

Troy rolls his eyes, but he looks like he’s in a good mood despite the early morning. “Ha ha, Parse. Don’t forget that I’m the one who invited _you_ to my special early-bird practice, so don’t get all lippy with me.”

Kent turns away to hide his smile, because he’s always had kind of a dorky smile and they need to get started anyway. It’s not a true liney practice, since Bigs didn’t come in early with them, but since Troy and Kent’s passing chemistry is arguably the most important thing they need to work on, their time is still valuable. 

Kent gets them started with some easy passes, but once they’re warmed up he makes Troy pass to him off the boards, and they practice their timing and placement when Troy dumps the puck behind the net.

“Sweet,” Troy says once they’ve been moderately successful. “Come on, Parse, I wanna do no-looks now. We got this.”

“Yeah, no.” Maybe once they have the basics down. Maybe tomorrow. “This time, feed it to me when I’m pretty much on the net, okay? Wait as long as you can.”

Troy gives him an exasperated look. His hair is poking down from his helmet, plastered across his forehead with sweat. He’s breathing hard, kind of rosy-pink from the workout, and it’s annoying how Kent still finds that hot after being around hockey players every day. 

“You got that?” Kent says, once it’s clear that Troy is waiting him out.

“Parse, I’m sick of losing.”

Kent hesitates. He runs his tongue against the sharpness of his teeth. “I am too, dude. But we’re doing really good for just one day of practicing on the same line, you know? I know I’m being kind of a hard-ass about it, but that’s just me. You’re doing good.”

A second passes, and then Troy grins at him. He’s a fucking decent person, and it makes Kent feel just slightly inferior. “Yeah, I know. Hey, for real, let’s do a no-look pass. Just one.”

This is stupid. It’s an ineffective use of their practice time, and Kent hates being ineffective. He wilts a little under the force of Troy’s smile. “Ah, sure. But if you hit me in the face I’ll kill you.”

“Never,” Troy says. “I like you with all your teeth.”

Kent doesn’t trust himself to respond to that, so he just skates to the center line. “I’m going fast,” he warns Troy. “I’ll keep my stick out, but I’m not looking back for you. See what you can do.”

It’s an abject failure, but it is kind of funny when the puck bounces off the boards and almost gets Kent in the shin. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, once he’s done laughing. Troy is still bent over from the force of his laughter a few yards away. “Try explaining that one to Coach. You’re fucking dangerous, Troy.”

“Wait,” Troy says, later. “Wait. This is perfect. Okay, so go over here --” He drags Kent by the arm toward the center line. “-- and skate forward when I say so. _Slowly_.” He grins at Kent, and it’s different from any of his other smiles today. “With your eyes closed.”

“I think you’re taking that no-look thing a bit too literally, man.”

Troy doesn’t skate away. He’s weirdly close to Kent. “Come on, dude. It’ll be good. Mine’ll be closed too, so I’ll just listen for you. You gotta trust me.”

“Okay, Troy,” Kent says, going for a sarcastic laugh. “We gotta get back to practice, dude, we don’t have time for joke stuff.”

It’s quiet. Kent doesn’t like that he can feel Troy looking at him. Finally, Troy says, “I don’t get why you won’t trust me.”

“I --” Kent’s skin feels like it’s crawling, and he wants to be somewhere else, and he can’t look at Troy. He doesn’t want Troy to look at him. “I think that’s enough practice for now. I gotta -- trainer.”

Kent skates away, barely seeing where he’s going. Behind him, Troy doesn’t say anything.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


They’d been in a hotel, the night Kent told Troy they couldn’t sleep together anymore.

It was the night before they played Montreal -- well, the morning before -- and Kent had known for awhile that he needed to do this. 

He’d knocked on Troy’s door, as quietly as he could, a little past one. No one else was in the hallway. 

“Hey,” Troy said, brown eyes and smile too warm for Kent. He opened the door all the way, and Kent slipped in.

There were certain things they did. Troy touched his waist and kissed him, up against the door, then squeezed Kent’s shoulders before stepping away to pour a glass of whatever alcohol he’d ordered that night.

It hadn’t started out that way. It used to be just -- straight to the sex, and then a short conversation right after to affirm that they were still bros. Teammates. Kent hadn’t let himself think about it when the kissing started, but that should have been the first sign that they needed to stop.

That night, Kent waited until he’d drained his glass of wine before he spoke. “Nate.”

Troy was sitting next to him on the bed, one knee pressed against Kent’s. “Yeah.” He looked over at Kent, paused. “Uh-oh.”

Kent had thought ahead about what he wanted to say. He still couldn’t quite meet Troy’s eyes. “We gotta stop this, man. For real this time. It -- it distracts me, doing this with someone on the team. I can’t do it anymore.”

This wasn’t the first time Kent had said they should stop. But it was the first time he’d meant it, and he could tell that Troy saw the difference. 

“I get that,” Troy said. He covered Kent’s hand with his own, briefly, then moved it. “Maybe we could try again later. When we’re not on the same team.”

“Yeah.” Kent looked down, eyes drawn to Troy’s hand. “Like if you’re ever traded.”

“If _I’m_ ever traded?”

Kent huffed out a laugh. “Yeah.”

It was time to go, Kent thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He kept his eyes down, surveying Troy’s forearm, wrist, hand; he didn’t realize he was leaning closer to Troy until Troy was reaching up to put his hand on Kent’s shoulder. His fingers were soft. He was touching Kent through the fabric of his shirt, but Kent could still tell that his fingers were soft.

Finally, Kent looked at Troy.

“Hey,” Troy said. His fingers tightened around Kent’s shoulders for a moment. “Is it a bad idea?”

It was. Kent grabbed Troy’s hand off his shoulder, lowered it so it was resting on the bottom hem of Kent’s shirt. “One more time is fine,” he said, and his voice sounded hoarse, too intense for the silence of the room.

Troy knew what Kent wanted, though, and he moved to pull Kent’s t-shirt over his head. “One more, and we won’t do this again,” he promised, and he kissed Kent’s neck. “I’ve got you, Parse.”

Kent knew it was stupid to stay, but he _wanted_ it, so much, and in the end it didn’t really matter. He left when they were finished, and he stopped showing up at Troy’s door early in the morning, and Troy stopped finding little excuses to smile at him, sit next to him, and touch him during the day.

Their thing, whatever it had been, was over.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


They take a home game to OT and win three seconds before the clock runs out; they’re outplayed miserably in their next game but manage to win 3-2 because of some lucky bounces and an amazing third period from their goalie.

“We’re getting there,” Kent says in practice as he watches Matty play on his new line. They’re connecting well, bringing out a scrappy physicality in each other that feels exciting, different. “Nice one, Scraps!”

Bigs skates up next to him, sending a wave of shredded ice into the air. “They’re looking good.”

“Yeah.”

“We need to work a little more, huh?”

Kent sighs. His new line has made a lot of progress, but there’s still something off between him and Troy. “Yeah.”

Bigs grins, all the more charming with four gaps where his teeth used to be. “Then let’s fucking do it, Parser. Get your dusty ass moving.”

Kent whacks him in the ass with his stick as Bigs turns away. “I’ll race you any day of the week, Bigger.”

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


There’s this bar they go to, a run-down place with sticky menus and yellow lighting. Kent is careful to sit next to Matty and Scrappy, but Troy slides into the booth across from him and there isn’t much that Kent can do about that.

Matty’s talking about some charity event he’s probably doing next week. Something with kids, and Matty is fine with kids for around five minutes at a time, but this sounds like it’ll require a little more from him.

“What the fuck do I do?” Matty is groaning, the words muffled from behind his hands. “Ugh. I swear every time I hang out with kids at these things, we stare at each other in silence until I think it’s a good idea to distract them by dancing.”

Bigs snorts. “And now you’re paying for all those poor little kids to get counseling. Maybe try a new fucking tactic, huh?”

Kent remembers the hockey camp he’d worked at for a week last summer. “Matty,” he says, “dude. You gotta come in, like, armed with the worst jokes. The _worst._ They’ll eat that shit up.”

Matty and Bigs start looking up bad jokes on their phones, and Kent lets Scrappy pull him into a conversation with Troy. They’re talking about music, Scrappy describing the Kanye West concert he went to last year. 

“Was it, like, distracting when his platform-thingy came over you, or was it cool?” Kent asks. He kind of wants to order more beer, but Scrappy’s really excited about telling this story and Kent doesn’t have the heart to interrupt him.

Troy clearly doesn’t have the same issue -- he flags down the server two minutes into Scrappy’s narration and asks for another glass. “Parser,” he says, glancing over at Kent. “You need another too, right?”

Kent wishes Troy didn’t notice these things. He wishes _he_ didn’t notice how brown Troy’s eyes are. He shrugs, and the server walks off to get their drinks.

“Have you been a Kanye fan for a long time?” Kent asks, before Troy can say whatever it looks like he’s thinking about, and Scrappy happily goes on another monologue. 

Eventually, Scrappy gets tired of talking about himself -- most people could go longer, Kent thinks, but Scrappy’s nice that way -- and asks Kent who his favorite rap artists are.

Kent doesn’t listen to rap. Ever. He hears it when his teammates play it, but he doesn’t know if he could actually name more than four rappers off the top of his head. “Uh, Kanye.” He licks his lips. “Jay-Z.”

“Boo,” Troy says, and pauses to thank their server as she arrives with their second beers. “Kendrick, man.”

Eventually, the other guys start a game of pool. Kent, Matty, and Troy sit it out -- Matty because he’s so terrible that he’s embarrassed, Kent because he’s been banned at this point. He’s not sure why Troy doesn’t play, but when Matty gets up to use the bathroom, Troy moves to sit next to Kent.

“You need something?” Kent asks. He tries to sound grumpy.

“One question.” Troy reaches for Kent’s half-empty beer glass, then grins when Kent glares at him. “Yeah, okay. Anyway -- Britney or ABBA?”

Kent feels weird, but he’s smiling. He’s not sure why he’s smiling. “I dunno. They both have some classics. What do you think?”

“Bro, I don’t listen to either. But if you could only pick one of them to listen to for the rest of your _life_ , which would it be?”

“Uh.” Kent is a little embarrassed to admit how horrifying that prospect is. “You know, my gut reaction is to say Britney, but how am I supposed to go on the rest of my life without ever listening to some of ABBA’s songs again?” He was going to name Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! specifically, but chickened out at the last second.

Troy nudges him with his knee. “True. What’s a Kent Parson shower without an ABBA medley performance? I mean, a really, really out of tune performance, but still.”

“Hilarious.” His knee is twinging in that particular way that happens when a hot guy is touching him, and the feeling is slowly making its way up Kent’s thigh. “But Britney retweeted me that one time. I’m not sure I could live with myself if I betrayed her now.”

“Oh my god, who are you betraying?” Matty asks, appearing suddenly next to their booth and making Kent jump. “Parse, are you dating?”

“ _No,_ ” Kent snaps, too fast. Too frustrated. He needs to sound casual, like he might be hooking up but not dating, or like he might even be dating and just keeping it to himself. When he flips out like this, it’s more likely to create suspicion. He knows that. “Nothing serious. I was talking about that time Britney Spears retweeted me.”

Matty’s eyes light up. “Oh, yeah! That was sick. Dude, did you ever DM her? I’ve told you, if she’s looking at your twitter that means you have a chance. Do it for all of us, bro.”

Kent laughs, shaking his head and trying to come across as fucking casual as he can, but Troy speaks up first. “Yeah, Matty, it’s almost as cool as that time that dude from the Bachelor retweeted you.”

“Oh my god, don’t make me think about that,” Matty says, and Kent jumps in to help Troy give him a hard time. Under the table, Troy’s leg is still a couple inches from Kent’s, but Kent could swear he can feel the warmth like they’re touching.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


The day Kent found out Troy wasn’t straight was the day Troy had blown him for the first time. It was a good day.

Kent had gone over to Troy’s place to meet with a group of guys from the team. They’d played FIFA and Bigs had made salsa in the kitchen, brought it out with chips and the hipster beer Troy had in the fridge. 

It was a good time, even before everyone else left. Troy’s AC was working overtime to make up for the nasty weather outside, and after awhile everyone took their shirts off. Kent didn’t make a habit of checking out his teammates, because that would never lead anywhere good, but he definitely liked being sprawled out on the floor, half-buzzed and surrounded by half-naked guys who liked him. 

Troy was lying on the floor next to him. He was on his stomach, almost asleep, part of his face mashed up against the rug. Kent could see the sweat beading up on his forehead. He wanted to touch Troy. He’d wanted that for awhile, and it was starting to feel like excitement bubbling under his skin instead of dread in his gut, which was probably not a good sign.

When the other guys left, Kent stayed. “I can help clean up,” he’d said. “I mean, you paid for pizza last week.”

Troy had looked like he wanted to say something, but he’d just smiled instead. “Cool.”

Neither of them got up. It was so warm, and quiet, and Kent felt sleepy. He rolled onto his side eventually and started sliding his feet against Troy’s shins. “Troy,” he said, “get up.”

“I thought you said you’d clean. You get up.”

“I said I’d _help._ ” Kent stopped moving. His toes were pressed in between Troy’s calves, which was probably weird, but it felt really nice. “So we both need to get up.”

“Ugh.” Troy reached down and grabbed Kent’s ankle, moving Kent’s feet over. It sent a thrill all the way up Kent’s legs, which he didn’t even have the energy to feel ashamed about. “Fine. You first.”

Kent rolled onto his stomach, then climbed to his knees. Technically he was only halfway done with standing up, but it seemed like an okay place to be for now. “Shit, I’m so goddamn tired. Fuck.”

Troy snickered at him, and Kent noticed that there was an imprint on his face from where it had been pressed against the rug. “Poor little Parser,” Troy said. He stretched and joined Kent on his knees, looking rumpled and bleary-eyed and just a few inches away. 

Kent had thought about getting up, then, but he liked hovering there with Troy. In truth, he liked being able to look at Troy’s body while Troy was too tired to think it was weird. Now that Troy was upright, Kent could see the sweat gathered across the muscles of his chest, his shoulders. 

He was looking too long. Kent tried to look up, and even then he let his eyes linger too long on Troy’s biceps. Jesus. 

When Kent finally did look up, anxious to check Troy’s face, he almost flinched back when he saw that Troy was watching him. _Fuck._ Kent wasn’t an idiot; he knew there were probably guys on the team who’d figured out he was gay, but there was a big fucking difference between letting them wonder and actually _checking them out_. He was such a fucking idiot.

But Troy’s eyes were soft, and his skin was pink -- was that from the heat, or was he blushing? Kent’s pulse picked up -- and Troy tilted his head to the side a little. “Hey,” he said.

Jesus Christ. Kent didn’t know what Troy’s deal was, but it felt like his own face was on fire. He hoped it wasn’t showing. “What?” he snapped, already cranky for no reason.

“Don’t get up yet.” Troy inched forward, still on his knees like Kent. It seemed like he’d get rug burn from that, Kent thought distantly, and his whole body felt electric by the time Troy leaned in, touched his nose to Kent’s neck. 

Kent felt like his heart had stopped; his skin felt like it was burning. He could feel Troy’s warm breath on his collarbone, and then Troy moved over so he was -- was licking across Kent’s chest.

“Jesus,” Kent gasped, and he couldn’t really stop himself from jutting his hips up. “Fuck.”

He never could remember the next part, exactly, but one way or another Troy had moved him to the couch. Kent was pretty sure he didn’t walk there himself. But then he was sitting down, and Troy was easing down Kent’s shorts, and after that, after Kent’s body got introduced to how good it felt to have Troy’s mouth on him, everything seemed obvious.

“Nice,” Kent said afterward, panting for breath. “Nice, nice.”

Troy smirked up at him. He was super hot like this, Kent thought, all flushed and satisfied. “Bro, you’re dead. I killed you.”

Kent could sit here for awhile, legs splayed open and head still kind of fuzzy, but Troy was obviously already feeling a little too pleased with himself. “Nice one,” Kent managed, and then he sat up and carefully pulled his shorts back up. Troy hadn’t left anything to clean up here, really. “I’ll take out the trash.”

“Wow, okay,” Troy grinned. He knew exactly how much Kent hated that chore. “If this is what I had to do to get you to help out more, I would have gone for it way sooner.”

Kent flipped Troy off before walking to the kitchen. He could hear Troy’s quiet laugh behind him, and Kent couldn’t help smiling too.

Well, until he saw how full the trash was.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Kent cuts through two defenders, puts his stick out, and sends a clean pass from Troy straight into the net. 

“Yes!” Kent grunts, and a second later Troy is barrelling into him; they’re joined by Bigs and Kent’s ribs are practically crushed in the resulting group hug.

It’s just a practice scrimmage, but it feels good to see results. 

“Quit rubbing it in our faces and meet me at the dot,” Webber snaps, and Kent does. He wins the faceoff, too.

Kent likes having Troy on his line. He’s a bit of a more natural playmaker than Matty had been, but he brings the same physicality that lets Kent know someone big has his back on the ice. He seems to adapt pretty easily to plays where Kent sets Troy up to score as well, doesn’t just send the puck back to Kent. 

Kent likes that, too. He’s always kind of missed using his ability to see how things will unfold during a game, as nice as it is to be the one who darts in at the last minute to score. He likes being a playmaker, and suddenly he’s more optimistic about the season -- hell, about _next_ season -- than he’s been in awhile. 

“Nice job, you guys,” Coach Erickson says as they move off the ice, later. “You’re looking real good out there.”

Kent nods, and Troy beams at him. Bigs gives Troy a fistbump and heads back to the locker room. 

“We’re gonna fucking kill it out there,” Troy says, and Kent can feel a smile breaking out on his face that’s probably just as big and goofy as the one on Troy’s. “Fuck yeah, man!”

Kent lets Troy pull him in for a quick hug, and it feels like sweat and adrenaline and hockey and _winning._

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Kent goes out for drinks with Bigs and his wife after practice -- Kent drinks for Jade, since she’s expecting -- and shovels down a frankly disgusting amount of fries as he waits to sober up enough to drive.

When he gets home, he has a bunch of notifications he doesn’t care about, plus a text from his sister. Kent focuses on that one, because Izzy always deserves his attention, but when he reads it --

This shouldn’t affect him. He doesn’t care anymore. But it feels like Kent’s not even in his body, at least not quite, and Izzy says Jack has engagement photos on his personal Twitter. 

Maybe there’s an argument to be made for Kent not looking. He doesn’t think that’s possible, though. He also doesn’t know why Jack ever gave him access to his personal account. Was it a peace offering or a strategy of emotional torture?

There’s a lag in the connection, and then Kent sees them.

He looks at each picture carefully. It’s hard to think. Everything feels twisted up, a mix of what he used to have and what he could never have. Kent flexes his hand -- his skin feels cold, almost tingly -- and keeps looking until it’s hard to see past the black spots.

One of these days Kent’s going to have to stop wanting -- this. Love, or whatever. He had thought he’d already gotten rid of this feeling, but now it feels like it’s going to swallow him. _You won’t get it, so get the fuck over it,_ he tells himself. His throat hurts.

 _Haha,_ he texts Izzy. _Nice._

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Their next home game is against Seattle. Kent skates out with Bigs and Matty, since Coach hasn’t cleared the new line for games yet. 

Everything goes wrong. Bigs limps off the ice at the end of the third, and even though the trainer confirms there’s nothing wrong with him a day of rest won’t fix, Kent’s still angry. 

“We need our line working,” he snaps at Troy. Troy doesn’t argue, but he seems irritated. Kent doesn’t fucking like that. “Don’t go anywhere. We need to practice.”

Their skates are already off at this point, but most of their uniforms are still on. Troy meets Kent’s eyes, then starts stripping down. “We can practice,” he says, when he sees how Kent is glaring at him, “but we need to rest. Come on.”

Kent changes into more comfortable workout clothes, and he follows Troy into an empty hallway. “I want to practice passing,” he says. He’s aware that he sounds like a whiny kid, but he’s too annoyed to care. “What the fuck.”

“We can practice passing,” Troy says, and he whips a small rubber ball at Kent, laughs when it bounces off Kent’s chest.

“Ow, the fuck.” Kent watches the ball roll down the hall and stubbornly refuses to chase it down. “You just had that on you? Really?”

Troy sighs and chases down the ball. “Don’t be an asshole. Sit down.” When Kent doesn’t move, Troy slides to a sitting position and tosses the ball between his hands. “I did this in college with my lineys. Builds trust.” He flicks the ball at Kent, and this time Kent catches it. “Just try not to let it bounce.” 

This is dumb, and Kent hates wasting his time. They should be on the ice. But it’s also kind of calming to toss the ball back and forth, the only sound the slap of rubber against their palms and Troy’s quiet noises when Kent throws it mean.

He isn’t sure how long they’ve been there, but probably ten minutes. It’s hard to keep track when he’s so focused, and he has to admit that sitting across from Troy like this does have a calming effect. 

“You played fine,” Troy says, finally. 

Kent catches the ball and holds onto it for an extra moment before throwing it back. “I don’t want to be fine.” Fine’s not good enough, never has been. He has another two Cups in him at least, if he can just get it together and lead his team in the right direction.

“Yeah.” Troy snaps his wrist and sends the ball straight into Kent’s hands. “I know. But we’ve had worse streaks and still made the playoffs. I just -- I know I’m not your mom, but I feel like you add a lot to this team, and all your awards and records aren’t even close to being the best thing you have to offer.”

Kent fumbles and drops the pass on Troy’s next throw. “Yeah, whatever.” He doesn’t know where to look. He doesn’t know why Troy always has to make things so personal. It’s the kind of thing that usually pisses Kent off, but he’s too tired to be mad. “I -- a friend of mine said the only job that matters when you’re captain is winning. So. We’re not winning.”

When Troy catches the ball this time, he holds onto it. Sets it down on the ground next to him. “Huh.”

“Aw, fuck you.”

Troy smirks at him. “I didn’t even say anything yet, Parse.”

“You don’t have to.” Kent feels weird under Troy’s gaze; he gestures for Troy to throw the ball back. “Whatever. We’ll win the next one, I’m an okay captain, yadda yadda. Let’s go.”

Troy bites his lip, then tosses the ball again. It’s a slow, high arc, not like the quick line-drives they’ve been exchanging so far. “I’m about done. We lost, Parse. It sucks, but we gotta leave. Get some rest.”

Kent knows he needs rest. Other guys lose, then walk away and just try harder the next day. Other guys have girlfriends, wives, families. “Fine.”

He knows he’s sulking. It’s embarrassing, but Kent feels like everything’s getting away from him. _Act like nothing affects you_ has always been his go-to strategy, and know he’s failing and he doesn’t even know why. 

“Parse,” Troy sighs. He crosses to Kent’s side of the hallway, slouches down against the wall so he’s sitting next to Kent. “We can’t fix every problem right now, okay?”

Kent exhales, trying to push out all the stupid pathetic shit he’s feeling with it. He’s about to answer, maybe brush Troy’s words off and say goodnight, when he feels Troy’s hand on his knee.

Troy is warm, and Kent can feel their closeness in a way that’s overwhelmingly sudden, practically under his skin.

“So,” Troy says. Conversational. “I guess you could keep feeling upset about shit you can’t control, or I could suck you off and take your mind off it. Your choice, dude.”

This has all happened before. Kent can’t remember why he stopped it. Something about too much kissing. “I’d probably still be thinking about hockey.”

“Maybe,” Troy concedes. 

Kent doesn’t think his decisions matter right now. He’s tired and sort of empty, and Troy is -- a lot of things. Hot, nice to him, good at keeping secrets. Someone who wants Kent, at least right now. 

Kent moves over so he’s sitting right up against Troy. “I guess I might be up for that,” he says, and he lets Troy pick the bathroom.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


“This is fucking dumb,” Scrappy yells the fourth time in a row Kent’s line scores on his. “I quit.”

“Not how it works, Scraps,” Troy shouts back. He’s beaming, and Kent can’t stop grinning. This is exactly what hockey’s supposed to be. 

Their next play, Kent feeds Troy a gorgeous pass through the legs of an opposing defender, and Troy dings it off the goalpost. But Kent’s right there, and he pushes the puck toward the net again. Jonesy fumbles the save and gives them another rebound. 

Troy sinks it.

They split up to run skill drills after that, but Kent feels like he’s floating on adrenaline. There’s nothing like these moments, when the chemistry is _there_ , when your own body knows exactly how to connect with someone else’s body. 

“Quit smirking at me, Parser,” Jonesy warns as they’re taking a water break. “I’m not above physical violence.”

Kent nods solemnly. “It’s okay, Jonesy. Everyone has rough days.”

Coach Erickson tells them to cut it the fuck out a minute later, which is a relief for Kent. He waits for Jonesy to ease up on the headlock.

“Nice job, Parser,” Erickson adds as Jonesy moves to the other end of the rink. “Bigs, Troy, you too. Things are clicking. I’d say you’re ready for a game.”

Bigs starts a round of high-fives, and Kent narrows his eyes when Troy gives him a self-satisfied grin. “Stop thinking what I know you’re thinking,” he hisses at Troy. Troy starts laughing, and Kent skates away.

“Parse,” Troy hisses in his ear as they’re resting against the boards with no one else around. “I know you like math. This is a direct correlation.”

“Correlation doesn’t equal causation, Nate,” Kent mumbles. “Also, shut the fuck up. We’re not gonna start doing all that again. Yesterday was just an exception because -- it was a one-time thing. Now quit looking at me. Go somewhere else.”

Troy punches him in the shoulder. “It was an exception because what?”

“Whatever. Never mind.”

Kent skates off to join the faceoff drill. He’s annoyed with himself, for being a mess, for not doing a good enough job of hiding it, for hiding it at all, for proving yesterday that he doesn’t have self-control for shit. 

He wishes he hadn’t seen the concerned look on Troy’s face. And -- he wishes he didn’t care what Troy thinks. 

“Over here, Parser!” Matty yells, waving his stick. “Best out of five.”

This is where his mind should be. Kent focuses. It’s what he’s good at.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


He doesn’t know why he does it, but Kent sends Troy the engagement pictures from Jack’s Twitter. Maybe it’s a way to apologize for being kind of a dick earlier today; maybe it’s him trying to do a better job of letting people into his life. Either way, he can’t unsend it.

By the time Troy texts him back a few minutes later, Kit is sprawled out across Kent’s feet and he’s trying to talk himself into not caring about dumb relationship shit.

  


  


**Troy:** Ew.

 **Troy:** Those shorts are wayyyy too short for engagement photos, who does that?

 **Kent:** bro why are you slut-shaming my ex’s fiance right now

  


  


Troy doesn’t respond right away, and when Kent gets tired of waiting he goes to the freezer and digs out a tub of ice cream. He tries to only eat it when he’s really stressed or upset, but whatever.

Finally --

  


  


**Troy:** Because you need me to.

  


  


Kent doesn’t know what to say to that, but he feels weirdly happy. 

He’d say it’s probably just the ice cream, but he’s not an idiot.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


“I don’t want to hear about your game, Kent,” his sister says.

Kent has to bite back a nasty reply. The thing is, he knows Izzy is right. Talking about the game tomorrow won’t affect the outcome, and he has games every week. Just because she’s stuck with him as a brother doesn’t mean she has to be stuck hearing about his strategies every week. The fact that tomorrow’s game is going to be his first one out with Troy on his line doesn’t really change that.

“What should we talk about, then?” he asks. He tries to sound as bro-y and carefree as he can, but it’s hard when he’s still focused on the game. “The tofu I made yesterday?”

“Are you trying to go vegetarian? I didn’t know that. Seems kinda risky when you’re playing hockey.”

Kent would never go vegetarian, but he’s still minorly offended that Izzy doesn’t think he’d be able to keep up his muscle mass. “Nah, it was just for fun. It tasted like shit, though.”

“Tofu’s fine.”

“Not the tofu I make.”

Izzy snorts, which feels like a victory to Kent. “Not surprised. Hey, I was gonna ask -- are you dating anyone?”

Kent feels pretty much the same way he would if she walked up to him and flicked him in the forehead. He looks around his room like a good response might be hiding there; he doesn’t know what to say.

“Okay, so I’m gonna interpret your silence as a no. Are you planning on _trying_ to go on a date sometime soon?”

He can’t help it -- he snorts. It runs in the family. “Uh, no, Izzy. What the fuck?”

She’s quiet, which is kind of a first. Finally, she says, “It’s not a weird question. It shouldn’t be. You should be dating.”

“Sorry, Izz, but you’re the only one who has a chance of giving Mom some grandchildren. Are _you_ dating?”

“Jason and I have only been broken up for, like, a month, so -- no. I just wish you wouldn’t laugh it off when I ask. Like it’s a ridiculous question.”

It _is_ a ridiculous question, and Kent isn’t sure why she doesn’t get that. But this whole thing is making him feel jagged, defensive in a way that always turns mean, and he doesn’t want to prove her point by getting that worked up. “Okay. Uh, how’s school going?”

She lets him change the subject, and they talk for a few more minutes, but Kent still feels shitty when they hang up. Because the thing is -- he doesn’t like the reminder. He’s not good at dating, and he’s not the kind of guy who should be in relationships, and that’s okay. It’s just his life.

He just doesn’t need anyone reminding him.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


It’s the first game playing with Troy on his line. Kent doesn’t know what he’s more scared of -- the two of them not connecting enough, or connecting too much.

He hopes they connect. He’s scared of looking at the feeling too long, but he hopes they have a chemistry that he hasn’t had on the ice since Juniors. Even thinking about that is terrifying, because he knows deep down what he wants that to mean.

Kent feels like he’s stuck in his head too much when the game starts, but it only takes three minutes of the first period for it to become blindingly obvious that this new line _works_. The game is still scoreless, but no one can ignore how the Parson-Troy-Bigger line is dominating every time they’re out on the ice.

By the time the game ends -- Aces on top, of course -- Kent has two goals to his name, and Troy would have one if the refs hadn’t made a bullshit interference call.

“You did so good,” Kent says later, face pressed into something warm. He thinks it’s -- yeah, it’s his own hands. Okay. 

He and some of the guys are celebrating, in a bar Kent didn’t pick and drinking kind of a crazy amount of beer. Troy is next to him. Kent isn’t sure who else is there right now. Probably doesn’t matter.

“Thanks, bud,” Troy says. 

“Bartender!” someone yells. It’s Bigs, or Carly, or Scrappy. Someone huge. “One more for this motherfucker!”

Kent feels a hand slap on his back; it takes him a second to realize they’re talking about him. 

“This beaut,” Scrappy says, pretending to wipe away a tear. It’s Scrappy. “Those goals, bro. Those _goals_.”

“He won’t be able to score anymore if you _kill_ him, Scraps.”

“Shut up, Matty.”

Kent drinks a little of the beer, and then Nate takes it off his hands and finishes it. Troy, he means. Kent can feel himself listing to the side, which is embarrassing, but he scored two fucking goals tonight. He’s a beaut.

They crash at Carly’s place, which is a super douchey bachelor pad with an in-home bowling alley, and Kent waves off all attempts to get him in one of the guest beds. He likes the floor by the 60” TV.

“Parser, come on,” Matty groans, but he disappears into one of the bedrooms with everyone else once it’s clear Kent isn’t moving.

A pillow falls onto Kent’s face, which confuses him until he realizes that Troy is taking up the couch right above him. “Don’t you need blankets or something?” Troy asks.

“No. Comfy this way.”

“Fucking weird.”

Kent lies down and looks at Nate, but it’s hard to focus. “You can be down here if you want. It’s not a big deal.”

He stretches his legs while he waits for Troy to answer. Finally, Troy says, “Yeah. Guess I could. Bigs and Matty are 100% sharing a bed right now, and no one’s gonna look twice at them.”

“Whatever.” Kent knows he’s right, but he doesn’t like it for some reason. He wants people to look twice at them. 

No -- he doesn’t. He’s drunk.

“I’m not a goddamn freak, though, so I’m getting some blankets,” Nate says. It takes him a few minutes, and by the time he comes back Kent is barely able to keep his eyes open. “Scoot over.”

Kent feels Troy ease to the ground next to him. The whole house is quiet; he doesn’t even hear anyone snoring. “Nate,” he mumbles, inching to the side until he can push his head against Nate’s shoulder, “you were so good. I liked it.”

“Thanks,” Nate whispers. “You were good too.”

Everything feels good, and Kent’s brain is fuzzy from beer and exhaustion. He falls asleep, Nate’s shoulder warm and steady underneath him.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Things had felt normal for a while, when they were hooking up. Well -- maybe not normal. Manageable. Nate would let Kent come to him; they’d mess around, just hands and mouths, and a week would pass before Kent needed more.

Because it was easy not to think about it when Nate just jerked him off and then ordered room service. It wasn’t as easy when Nate was making dinner at Kent’s place, or when Nate actually gave him a decent Christmas gift for once in his life.

Mostly, Kent ignored it. They were teammates first, friends second, whatever _this_ was -- fuckbuddies, he guessed -- third. 

And things were good. It _felt_ good. A couple days after Nate’s birthday, Kent dropped by to hook up. He didn’t have anything better to do, and he’d thought it would be kind of funny to say he didn’t have a present for Troy because the sex _was_ the present. 

But he never really got the chance to say that, because they were making out as soon as Kent closed the door behind him, and he had no intention of catching his breath long enough to talk. 

They kissed differently than they had when they first started messing around. That had been fast and hard, a lot of spit and tongue and biting. The type of thing you do to make someone come faster. But here, in Nate’s house, they were used to each other. They could keep their clothes on for awhile; they didn’t have to rush.

Kent didn’t have any good reason to learn how to be a good kisser, but he had learned that Nate liked to crowd Kent in, to grab his collar and pull him up into the kiss if Kent was wearing a shirt. Kent had learned that _he_ liked to go slow with the tongue, teasing. He’d never had time for that before.

So it was good. Kissing. And it felt good when Nate backed Kent up into the door, tipping Kent’s head back and kissing him until it felt like he didn’t even need to breathe. Nate ground their hips together, the front of his jeans making contact with Kent until it felt so good that Kent couldn’t keep track of himself anymore.

At some point, Kent broke the kiss so he could gasp for air. Nate stayed pressed up against him, and Kent expected him to start mouthing at his neck, but he didn’t. He just -- looked at Kent. 

Kent looked away. He felt flushed, not just on his face but _everywhere_ , and he knew he was still breathing too hard. “What?”

Nate didn’t answer. There was something intense going on in his eyes, and he shifted his hips against Kent again.

Kent gasped, shutting his eyes. He knew he was making an embarrassing face, but fuck. This wasn’t fair. 

“Come on, Kent, shh,” Nate said, and then he got Kent’s pants open and pulled him off right there against the door, so Kent pretty much gave up on staying in control of himself. 

It just felt -- weird. Kent felt good the rest of the night, sure, because Nate let him help with dinner even though Kent sucked at cooking, and the rest of the night was fun because Nate was always easy to get along with. But later, when he was in his own apartment, Kent felt jumpy in his own skin.

He liked the sex, and the kissing, but he wasn’t sure he liked having Nate -- Troy -- _look_ at him like that. It wasn’t going to lead anywhere good. And this whole thing was starting to feel bigger than Kent wanted to deal with, like if it kept going it wouldn’t be the same.

The really weird thing was how Kent kind of wanted to let Nate look at him. Which was frustrating, because he’d really thought he was over that phase of his life. 

Kent texted Troy that night to let him know that they should just focus on hockey at this point in the season, and Troy said okay.

He said okay again two weeks later, and then the week after that, and the month after that. 

Kent wasn’t sure why this kept happening.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Kent leaves Carly’s place early in the morning, before most of the other guys have woken up. He has a bitch of a hangover, but that’s his own fault, and he still needs to check in on Kit before getting to the rink.

He tries not to think about it while he brushes his teeth, feeds Kit, tracks down a pair of clean socks, holds Kit against his chest and buries his face in her fur. But he can’t forget it. Waking up with his face pressed into Nate’s armpit, seeing the drool stain he’d left on Nate’s shirt, the way it felt to sit up and look down at Nate, still sleeping on the floor.

Kent’s all warmed up by the time any of the other guys start to join him on the ice. He tries to look busy practicing his stickhandling, but in reality he’s on the lookout for Troy.

When Troy arrives, he sits down on the bench and messes with his bag for a minute. Kent figures this is as good an opportunity as he’ll ever get, so he loops his way over there.

“Hey,” Kent says as he steps off the ice. “Can you head back with me for a sec?”

Nate looks a little weirded out, but he doesn’t argue about it. He follows Kent through the tunnel and off into a small hallway where they can get some privacy. “You okay?”

“Yeah, uh.” Kent just needs to spit this out. “I wanted to say sorry. About yesterday.”

Nate stares at him. “Huh?”

“Falling… asleep on you.” Kent’s mouth tastes bitter. He doesn’t know why he keeps pulling this shit. “That was -- I dunno. Shouldn’t have happened. Sorry.” 

“Kent.” Nate steps closer, making Kent’s pulse drown everything out for a moment. “It’s fine. You don’t have to be sorry about that. It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_ okay, I said I wouldn’t --” Kent jerks away from Nate, tries to go back out to the ice as fast as he can. It’s fucking hard with skates on, and he’s so upset he almost falls down. 

He doesn’t even know why he’s so fucking upset, but his vision is all weird and his heart is racing. This isn’t the way things are supposed to be. He’s supposed to keep winning his damn games, and settle down with some nice blonde woman, and never think about his teammates like -- like this. 

Kent can at least try to control his game, he thinks, but he’s off-balance the whole practice. He’s distracted, fucks up so many basic plays that even the fans are heckling him. Bigs glares at him, Jonesy chirps him so brutally Kent almost throws his stick, and Coach Erickson pulls him aside at the end of practice to chew him out.

It takes long enough for Kent to pull himself together that the showers have pretty much cleared out by the time he gets there. No matter how hot Kent turns the temperature up, he can’t feel it, and he eventually turns the handle down to cold.

He’s fucked up everything. Again. How many fucking times does he need to be reminded that he’s only good for hockey? Kent’s head is clear now, and the water’s so cold it hurts, but he leaves it on awhile longer.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


“Wow,” Jack had said after Kent kissed him the first time. He’d been dumbstruck, staring at Kent with his mouth hanging open. Kent had laughed and laughed.

  


  


  


  


Jack had dumped him after the first time they had sex. Then after they lost three games in a row, the worst losing streak of the season. Again after he met with the GMs for Vegas and New York, and again after Kent met with them.

  


  


  


  


They were usually careful, but not always.

Kent brought Jack to a local elementary school, everything dark and abandoned this late at night. They walked the perimeter of the building until they found a section hidden behind another wall, a place where Kent could pull Jack against him, let Jack back him up into the brick wall.

Then -- Jack’s fingers biting into him, teeth scraping against his neck, Jack’s knee right _there_. Kent never knew what to expect from Jack in these moments. Sometimes he was rough like this, almost feverish; sometimes he lingered, all his touches soft and intense. 

It was always intense. 

“I love you,” Kent breathed.

  


  


  


  


Kent was sprawled out on his hotel bed, pretending to watch Spongebob. He was so fucking tired after their game went into OT, but at least he’d scored the game-winner. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Jack’s shit just because Jack had been shut down by the other team’s defense all game.

He was watching Jack, though. Jack had been sitting at the little hotel table, looking out the window for the past fifteen minutes.

“Zimms,” Kent finally tried.

Jack didn’t even flinch. 

Kent wasn’t sure Jack could even hear him. He wasn’t sure where Jack was, but it sure as hell wasn’t here.

Fine. Fuck him. It wasn’t Kent’s fault he’d scored and Jack hadn’t.

He turned up the volume and flipped over so he didn’t have to look at Jack.

  


  


  


  


Kent shouldn’t have said it. It was too soon, and he knew Jack didn’t love him back, and he wasn’t even sure if he really loved Jack. How can you know something like that?

“Don’t,” Jack snapped. He pushed Kent harder into the wall. “Don’t say that.”

  


  


  


  


They lifted the Memorial Cup together. 

Jack was taller, and he had to bend his arms so Kent could hold on to his side of the Cup, but they were doing it together. 

“Kenny,” Jack whispered, so quiet in the screaming arena that Kent might have been imagining it. But he looked over at Jack, and he knew he wasn’t imagining the heated look in Jack’s eyes. 

“We fucking did it, Zimms,” Kent yelled over the noise, and he leaned in to press his face against Jack’s shoulder. 

That night was the first time Jack said _I love you._ It made Kent ridiculously, intoxicatingly happy, even as he wasn’t sure he believed it.

  


  


  


  


The second time Kent said _I love you_ , Jack had told him they should stop hooking up.

They were wrapped around each other in the back of Jack’s car four days later, but it still hurt.

  


  


  


  


Kent went to Jack’s college twice. The first time sucked. The second time was a disaster. 

He could never remember what exactly he’d even said to Jack. 

_Don’t ever come near me again,_ Jack had texted him a couple days later. _I don’t want you anywhere near my life._

That was probably worse than remembering.

  


  


  


  


“When did you start drinking so much?” Kent had asked. They were alone in the basement of Jack’s billet house. He meant to embarrass Jack, and he could tell from Jack’s face that it worked.

“Probably around when we started fucking,” Jack snapped. If he meant to hurt Kent, that worked too.

  


  


  


  


“I didn’t mean it when I said that,” Jack said.

They’d had this fight already. Then, Jack had crawled into Kent’s bed a couple nights later, whispering _I love you_ and snaking his hands under Kent’s shirt. It hurt more the second time.

“Neither did I,” Kent said. He was lying, and he could tell that Jack knew. 

When Kent left, Jack didn’t follow him.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


But that was a long time ago.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Kent drives straight home after practice. He spaces out a few times, which is kind of weird when he suddenly remembers he’s driving, but it’s easier when he starts his Pop Princess playlist.

He’s not tired or hungry. He doesn’t want to watch any shows, or take a nap, or call his mom, or watch extra tape. He wants whatever this thing is inside of him -- this feeling -- to be ripped out into the open where it can either be made okay or gotten rid of forever. 

That’s kind of trippy and not really possible, so he just makes his cat chase a laser instead. 

Kent’s feeling better by the time his phone buzzes, but as soon as he sees it’s a text from Nate his heart starts racing. _I’m outside, buzz me into the elevator in like a minute please._

There’s not a single good, okay reason for Nate to be here. Kent doesn’t want to talk to him. 

\-- Except in all the ways he does, but that just makes him feel worse.

He doesn’t text Nate back, but he does buzz him in. By the time Nate’s knocking on the front door, Kent’s already so anxious that Kit has given up on being in the same room as him.

“Hey, man,” Nate says. He has that look on his face like he wants to give Kent a hug, but Kent steps around him to shut and lock the door. “Sorry if it’s a dick move to surprise you like this. I just feel like we need to talk more. Today was --”

“Yeah.” Kent gestures wildly toward the couch. “Wanna sit down? Hold on, I’ll get water. Just sit down.”

When Kent goes back into the living room, Nate has a Dallas game playing on mute. He takes a water glass from Kent. “Sweet, thanks.”

Kent sits on the recliner so he doesn’t have to worry about sharing the couch, how far away to sit. He sips his water instead of trying to fill the silence.

“Parse,” Nate finally says. “It’s hurting our game.”

Well, he can’t disagree with that. Not after today’s practice. “Yeah.” He doesn’t know how to even start a conversation that could fix this, so -- “Stay for dinner?”

Nate cracks a smile. “Sure. Takeout?”

“The fuck are you saying? I can cook.”

The expression on Nate’s face is not a huge vote of confidence, and Kent rolls his eyes. This feels better, goofing around like this. “How about you chill here and watch the game while I get something together real quick? Then we can talk.” 

Kent cooks up the quickest stir-fry he can manage, the sounds of the game in the other room not doing quite enough to calm him down. “Order up,” he calls when he’s all done.

Nate doesn’t reply, so Kent just scoops out a bowl for himself and joins him on the couch. He twists the noodles around his fork and looks down. His fucking appetite is gone.

“I thought you were making some for me?” Nate looks forlorn.

Kent isn’t nurturing enough for this bullshit. And his fucking stomach hurts. “Yeah, but I’m not hand-delivering it to you. Extra bowl’s on the counter.”

Nate rolls his eyes and gets up; Kent tries to trip him on his way to the kitchen, but Nate sidesteps it. “You’re such a great host, Parson.”

It shouldn’t even be a big deal, but that just reminds Kent that he’s only in position to host because Nate invited himself over. Because Kent fucked everything up, again. He puts his bowl down on the coffee table and takes some deep breaths. On the screen, the Stars hit one off the post.

He grabs the bowl again when Nate comes back. There’s still too much anxious energy in his body to actually eat, but Kent tries to at least do _something_ \-- he picks through the stir-fry, spearing differing things on his fork and taking tiny little nibbles once every minute or so. Nate, of course, makes eating look like breathing, and he inhales his meal in less than five minutes.

“I wish --” Nate cuts himself off, and Kent’s heart rate skyrockets. “I dunno. I wish it wasn’t like this.”

Kent wants to make a joke about his cooking, but he’s aware that wouldn’t be funny right now. He takes an actual bite of his dinner to postpone responding, but regrets it pretty much right away. “Yeah.”

“I don’t get why you’re so --” Nate shakes his head. “It only started bugging you when I went slow. That’s all.”

That’s -- Kent has to put his bowl down. He doesn’t know why Nate wants to talk about these things. It’s way easier not to talk about it, to pretend none of it ever happened. 

Nate’s not like him, though; he’s better, and Kent doesn’t know why he’s _here_ \--

“Okay, let’s put this away,” and Nate’s taking Kent’s bowl, standing up and looking weirdly calm. “Just sit tight. Watch the game.”

And -- as soon as Nate gets up, Kent wants him to come back. Which is a problem. Probably. 

“Done,” Nate says, settling in on the couch again. Kent expects him to say more, but it’s quiet. Nate’s much closer to Kent now, just a few inches away, and there’s something overwhelming about the way Kent wants to close the distance -- to lean in, to hide his face against Nate’s shoulder. 

Nate shifts a little closer, and Kent curls toward him. He doesn’t make contact -- he can’t -- but he twists until he doesn’t think Nate can see his face, until Nate’s shoulder is so close that he might be able to feel the warmth there. It might just be his imagination. 

It’s nice, though, and eventually Kent just accepts that he’s being weird, and then it’s even nicer because he isn’t feeling embarrassed. His couch is familiar, pressed up against one side of his face, and Nate’s body is familiar. 

Nate shrugs against him, bumping Kent’s forehead. “Hey, do you wanna get out of here? Walk over to McDonald’s and pretend we’re normal people?”

“Yeah.” Kent doesn’t have to think about it. It’s the kind of trash he never eats, never has been allowed to eat, but he wants to leave his apartment. He wants to go do something normal with Nate.

They put their shoes on. Neither of them mentions the mess in the kitchen. Kent grabs his key, and Nate touches his hair -- carefully, just once -- before opening the door.

Kent wants something.

He follows Nate and locks the door behind them.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Kent still remembered the first time he’d hung out alone with Nate. 

They’d been out for drinks with the rest of the team, and Nate’s car had been -- somewhere. Someone had borrowed it, maybe his neighbor. Kent had offered him a ride home. 

“You haven’t seen Breaking Bad?” Nate demanded as they were exiting the freeway, and by the time Kent pulled into Nate’s driveway it was a done deal that they were both going inside.

Nate provided storebrand chips and salsa, which horrified Kent more than he let on, and as soon as Kent sat down Nate was sprawled out with his legs over Kent’s lap, so that was just the way it was.

They paused the episode less than five minutes in because Nate needed to use the bathroom, and they never got around to hitting play again. It was easy to just talk, which was -- different. Not something Kent was used to. 

“Do you like it?” Nate asked eventually, gesturing at the TV. “So far, I mean. I know we’ve barely started.”

He looked so hopeful. Kent patted him on the shin. “It’ll grow on me.”

Nate laughed, and Kent lost track of everything else for a moment. “Yeah, maybe another time.” He stretched and almost rolled off the couch. “Hey, wanna help me finish a huge bottle of Coke? I need it out of my fridge.”

“Troy, dude, that is way off our meal plan.”

“Uh, yeah, hence why I can’t drink it all by myself. If you share it with me it’s only half as bad.”

Kent tried not to, but he laughed. 

He laughed a lot that night. It was weird, and kind of embarrassing, but Nate smiled bigger every time, so whatever.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


They sit outside, at one of McDonald’s awful picnic tables. Nate cleans it off and throws the leftover wrappers away. “People these days,” he mutters, and Kent cracks a smile.

Kent hasn’t been to a McDonald’s in at least five years, so he’d let Nate order for him. “I know what you’ll like,” Nate had promised, but Kent looks at the amount of whipped cream on top of his shake and isn’t so sure.

Nate seems more than happy to tear into his chicken nuggets, which makes Kent suspicious that he eats here more often than he’d let on. “Eat,” Nate says, looking up and grinning. He has a spot of honey mustard on his mouth.

There’s something weirdly intimidating about the humongous burger in front of Kent -- which is ridiculous, since he’s eaten equally huge burgers at actual diners -- but it’s probably just a mental thing. He’s very aware of the fact that he never eats at McDonald’s. “Ugh, fine.” Kent grimaces and takes a bite.

It’s really fucking good. He tries to be casual about it.

“Yeah, I see you,” Nate says. He hasn’t wiped the sauce off his mouth. It’s really distracting. “This is our cheat day spot, I’m calling it.”

Kent takes a small sip of the milkshake. The jury’s still out on that one; it tastes too much like fake sugar. “Hey, you’ve got --” He points at his mouth vaguely. 

Nate looks at him for a moment but doesn’t wipe his lip. “I hope you appreciate the extra pickles. You freak. I’ve never met someone who likes pickles so much.”

He’s still staring at Nate’s mouth. “Uh-huh.” His brain is pretty much done processing anything that isn’t Nate’s upper lip.

“Seriously. _Two_ extra orders of pickles. That’s just gro--”

“-- _Nate_ ,” Kent breaks in. 

“Yeah? What do you --” Nate looks closely at Kent, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

There’s a family talking and eating at another table, a teenage boy on his phone at another. The sun’s beginning to set, behind Kent where it’s probably shining directly into Nate’s eyes. 

Kent looks down at his feet. There’s a yellow wrapper on the ground. He kicks it.

“You’re off tomorrow, right? Maintenance day?”

Kent rubs his palms on his jeans. “Yeah. Glad I don’t have to skate after eating this.”

Nate laughs. “You’re so fucking dramatic.”

“Whatever, Nate. I’m seeing a whole new side to you. I bet this is the kind of shit you eat all the --” Kent’s breath cuts out when Nate shifts forward, pressing his knees against Kent’s.

“Whatever, Parse, I eat vegetables.” Nate grins. He has to know what he’s doing He _has_ to. “Ever heard of the food pyramid? I eat my Oreos in _moderation_.”

Kent barely hears him. Why the fuck is it so fucking intense to feel Nate’s knees on his, what the fuck, why can’t he _breathe_? He grips the edge of the table, which kind of sucks because McDonald’s picnic tables aren’t fun to touch. One of Nate’s legs moves, just barely, and Kent gulps for air.

Then Nate leans back, ending the contact. Kent feels this weird urge to reach for Nate’s fingers, something to replace that feeling. That’s -- he can’t do that.

“Hey.” Nate is looking at him. He’s looking so closely; he has to see everything. “I know it’s hard for you to talk about --”

“What do you want?”

Nate has to regroup for a moment. “What do I want from what?”

Kent picks up his napkin and starts twisting it in a long line. “With, like, me.”

Nate’s cheeks slowly flood with red, and he reaches out and starts fiddling with the box his chicken nuggets came in. The box rips, and he looks over his shoulder like he has an audience.

Kent couldn’t look away if he wanted to.

“Uh.” Nate clears his throat; his face is still red. “I want to be there for you.” He’s awkward and he’s embarrassed, but he’s looking right at Kent.

Kent rides out the fear, the feeling of being overwhelmed, but there’s nothing to doubt here. “Okay,” he says, all risk in his mouth. He can’t believe this is happening. That he’s doing this.

Nate blinks. “Okay?”

“Sure.”

Kent makes himself look Nate in the eyes, and once he’s done that it’s impossible to look anywhere else. He’s spent a lot of time avoiding this -- even when they were just friends, even when they were in bed together -- but now that it’s happening, Kent forgets where he is. There’s only the light, delicate brown of Nate’s eyes, the frankness there, the way his eyes move into Kent like Nate belongs with him.

There’s not a lot they can say here. Kent is holding his breath.

Nate must be too, because he finally exhales in a long shudder. “Parse, I mean like --”

“Yeah.”

They sit together longer. Kent likes watching Nate eat his chicken nuggets. It makes everything feel more normal. Nothing too crazy could be happening while someone’s eating chicken nuggets. 

Then Nate smiles at him, bright and dorky like he can’t help it, and Kent lets himself feel it. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen later, but right now Nate’s eating chicken nuggets, and smiling at him, and wanting to be with him. Everything else can wait.

Kent leans forward. “Do you want my ice cream?” He doesn’t know what else to say. He hopes Nate gets it.

The ice cream in question is getting kind of liquidy at this point, since Kent was saving it for last, but Nate accepts it anyway. Kent watches at he takes a spoonful of it.

Then Nate reaches over again. His hand goes up, past Kent’s face, and then he’s playing with the brim of Kent’s hat, just for a few seconds. Kent has to look down, overwhelmed again, and when Nate lets go it’s slow, maybe tender, his fingers dragging gently across the brim before he moves back into his own seat.

Kent eats more of his burger. The sky is changing color now, getting closer to dusk, and he likes how Nate looks under the purple sky -- all bright-eyed and prettier than he’s ever been, soft with affection. 

Nate slurps up the last of Kent’s ice cream. He smiles. “Parse,” he says. “Thanks.”

There’s nothing Kent can do but smile back. Sitting here, under the sunset at McDonald’s surrounded by people who might not recognize them, Kent can’t say exactly what he wants. He can’t move to sit by Nate and wrap his arms around him, and he definitely can’t kiss him in the way he’s imagining. 

But the moment they’re sharing is good enough. Being across from Nate is good enough. Nudging his foot under the table and feeling a shock all through his body, the certainty of what they are now and what that means, is good enough. 

There’s time to be alone later. For now, Kent feels like he could stay here forever.

“I want that too,” he says, quiet. It makes no sense, but Nate smiles at him, and Kent doesn’t think he’s ever felt this light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is just a list of songs that are in the playlist i made!! THE STORY IS OVER I SWEAR.

**Author's Note:**

> honk if you love kent parson!!!


End file.
